by Kate Long
Roz squinted. ‘Prettier than Gemma.’
‘She’s got the same-shaped jaw, though, and her haircut’s similar.’ It was somewhere near the truth.
‘I still reckon she might fancy you, Chaz. When you were watching TV last night, she kept looking over. She did.’
I gave Roz a mild shove. ‘Get off.’
‘No, I’m serious. Just when you aren’t expecting it, she’ll pounce.’
That made me laugh. ‘You make her sound like a Bengal tiger. For God’s sake, being a lesbian doesn’t turn you into a raging sex maniac, casting about for anything in a skirt. You like men, yeah? But you don’t fancy every bloke you meet, do you? You don’t fancy Old Dogbreath in the corner shop, or that postman with all the nostril hair. You don’t fancy John Prescott.’
‘You’re not the equivalent of John Prescott, though. You’re more . . .’ She paused to flick through a few likely candidates. ‘I dunno. Walshy.’
‘I bloody am not.’
Roz pursed her lips.
‘I’m not like Walshy! Not in any way. And Gemma isn’t on my case. Sheesh, I’ve enough on my plate with the exams next week, I don’t need any extra distraction.’
‘OK, OK. Chill out.’
And how about you, Roz? I wanted to say. How’s YOUR revision going? That would have brought her up short. Not a lot of note-making and open textbooks to be found in her room, as far as I could see. But she was on Planet Motherhood right now. I remembered that feeling of being behind a glass wall and watching others, at the same time fascinated by the smallness of their concerns and irritated to death. She couldn’t help it. And maybe once the pregnancy became common knowledge, her tutor would step in and offer support, salvage something out of the degree.
‘Hey,’ I said. ‘How about we go seek out a bit of mindless distraction? Do you fancy playing tourists for an hour?’ I took Roz’s hand and pulled her towards the exit.
Eric gave me a lift back in his van. I had some fun climbing up into the seat, what with my heels and my trailing skirt, and the footwell being full of papers and empty Coke tins. When it was time to get out, though, he came round my side and opened my door for me like a gentleman. Then he offered a hand down. I couldn’t ever recall anyone doing that for me, and it made me blush. Tragic, isn’t it? My whole life I’ve been starved of gallantry.
‘Will’s booked into nursery till three,’ I said. ‘Do you want to come in for a coffee?’
Eric slammed the passenger door shut. ‘Can’t. I’ve to be back at work.’
‘What have you done with Kenzie?’
He nodded vaguely in the direction of the bypass. ‘He’s at Little Beavers nursery, over in Radcliffe.’
‘Radcliffe? Blimey, that’s a fair hike for you.’
‘I know. Useless in an emergency. But it’s where he was before we came here and I daren’t move him. It took Maria months to settle him as it was. That’s why it’s so good he likes coming round to yours. What would we do without friendly neighbours, eh?’
‘That’s right. And, likewise, I know I can always leave Will at yours if I need to.’
He jangled the keys of his van at me. ‘Course you can, Karen,’ he said easily. ‘Any time.’
‘This may be your idea of fun,’ said Roz out of the semi-darkness, ‘but it’s making me feel sick.’ An assistant had helped us into one of the little open carriages, there was a whirring sound, people giggling in the car behind us, and then we’d been jerked backwards into the past: the Jorvik Time Travel Experience. Down through Victorian York, Georgian, Stuart, Tudor, Norman. At the end the car did a three-point turn to face forwards and there we were, surrounded by Vikings.
If you’re in need of entertainment, York isn’t short of attractions. Roz and I could equally have taken ourselves to the Minster with its Great East Window and inspiring Gothic lines, raised a prayer to the vaulting and bought a fridge magnet from the gift shop. But that place was off-limits because of Walshy last autumn, hurtling like a man on fire out of the Lady Chapel and shouting into the crowds, ‘A miracle! A miracle! I was blind and now I can see!’ I had no idea holy people could get so cross.
We could have gone and cheered ourselves up at the Dungeon, but memories of that place were tainted also, this time by Gareth who’d been caught flicking nuggets of chewed-up paper at the model of Dick Turpin to see if he could get them to stick like warts. We all got chucked out of the building that time, even though I’d just been a spectator.
But you didn’t fool with the Vikings. Jorvik was a weird enough experience without the need for any mucking about. Here was the Viking village with a thatched hut, creepy mannequin children playing outside, a mannequin crone inside and what looked like a real stuffed rabbit hanging from the doorpost. The charcoal fire flickered electrically and a smell of soot wafted over. Viking voices muttered in the background. A cockerel crowed.
‘Your little boy would like this,’ said Roz.
I nodded, though I wasn’t sure. He’d more likely find it nightmarish, what with the subdued lighting and strange, dungy smell. Some of the figures seemed to be watching us back.
The narrator over the Tannoy told us this was Lothin the wood turner, and we craned our necks to see.
‘Have you ever brought Daniel to this place?’
Lothin was indeed turning his wood. In the cars we were treated to a whiff that reminded me of pencil sharpenings and fresh sawdust. I thought about Daniel waiting for me to say sorry. Closing the front door behind him, his face sadder than sad.
‘No. Never got round to it.’
‘You could drop in next time he’s here.’
Before I could reply, the narrator started to speak again, telling us about the importance of fishing to Viking communities. We moved into a tableau of men hauling nets, silver herring glistening under varnish, buckets of oyster shells at their feet. One of the fishermen had wiry hair like Daniel’s. Next time he’s here.
A whole week he’d kept me hanging before he’d phoned – God, I was so keyed up I nearly broke first. A week! We’d never left it so long without talking. There’d been texts, of course, tight-lipped, polite enquiries passed between us. How is ur mum? – Ok. Hows revsn gng? I still hadn’t managed to apologise. I was saving it till after the exams, I told myself. Till I could see him face to face.
We trundled past Thorfast the bone carver and Snarri the jeweller. In one of the huts a baby cried and its mother sang to calm it. ‘Sweet,’ I said to Roz.
Svein the leather worker smelled of ammonia. ‘Piss,’ Roz said, clamping her hand to her face in disgust. ‘And worse. Oh, gross, is that someone on the toilet?’
Above the top edge of a wicker wall, a man’s face strained.
‘I suppose even Vikings used the loo.’
‘I don’t want to see it. Seriously, Chaz, I think I might be sick.’
‘If you’re going to hurl, wait till we get to the midden at least, then no one’ll notice. In fact, it’ll add authenticity to the exhibit.’
‘Thanks for the sympathy.’
You’re going to have to deal with a lot of toilet-stuff when the baby comes, I felt like saying.
Someone in the seats behind us went, Eew, do you think they come to life at night? and it gave me the jitters because I’d been playing with that idea myself. It was hard not to when the flickering half-light made some of them look as if they were moving. Svein’s eyes glittered back at us from under his rat-tail hair, the brazier cast a glow across the muscles of his arms. What would they think of us, these Vikings, if they could see us trailing past, gawping? If they could somehow spy on our glossy modern paraphernalia, our mobile phones, computers, TVs, our motorways and air travel? Our shining high-tech hospitals. The vast fields we have these days with their agricultural machinery scooping up industrial-scale crops; the container ships crossing the oceans with their satnav. Our space rockets, our weapons. How far we’d come. And yet, behind the hut, hardly visible unless you squinted, two ninth-century lovers embraced
against a tree. Her face seemed tilted to his and he was smiling down wolfishly, one hand pressing against the bark above her head. Was it a secret tryst? Was he honourable? Was she safe? Perhaps if I came back here after closing time and waited long enough, I’d see them argue and one of them walk away.
Over the stench of ammonia now came hay, roasting meat and cloves. Roz was making gagging noises beside me.
‘Don’t you think,’ I said, ‘that really we’re all alike? I mean, for all these guys are less advanced than we are, they’re just human beings with the same worries and stresses and triumphs and grief. A few hundred years makes no difference. That’s what the exhibition’s telling us: it’s as if we’re them and they’re us. Only they pooed in pits and we have flushing toilets.’
Roz made a show of pinching her nose. ‘You must be kidding. We’ve come a bit further than that.’
But when I looked down, her hand was resting on her belly, the unconscious pose of a mum to be. Mum-alone, mum in trouble. Her dilemma was the oldest one in the book.
The post was waiting on the mat. Our new postie’s nice but he’s slow, likes to chat and wonder aloud about what he’s handing over. I only see him on Saturdays because by the time he delivers I’ve usually gone to work.
I picked up the pile of letters and went into the lounge. Eric’s van was just swinging onto the Working Men’s car park for a U-turn. I waved but he didn’t see me.
One by one I dropped envelopes – a bumper crop of rubbish today – onto the table. Two special offers from catalogues, a flyer from Sky, a suggested tariff change from British Gas, a leaflet about swimming classes, a Dear Occupier and a letter from Social Services asking if I wanted to join in this autumn’s Carers’ Events. Still I get this stuff, even though it’s three years since I looked after my mum at home. You get onto some database and then it’s like trying to scrape chewing gum off your shoe.
The last was an envelope – pink this time rather than blue – another greetings card. The writing I knew.
My heart began to thump. Don’t open it! went my sensible side. Put it straight in the bin. But sometimes your hands don’t do what you tell them to. I put a finger under the flap and ripped.
FROM YOR MUM IN LONDON it said. Painting of some Venetian bridge on the front, smudgy biro print on the inside lower right corner. I vaguely thought, That’ll be useful if I have to go to the police. Then I shook myself out of it. I wasn’t going to dignify this nasty-minded mischief by contacting the law. The best way to meet it was with a blank.
I forced the card back in its envelope, took it by its edges and ripped ripped ripped till the pieces were the size of cornflakes. Then I swept them into a cupped hand and carried them outside to the wheeliebin. The only mum I’d had in London was a five-star bitch and I’d rather have put my own eyes out than let her anywhere near my family.
As the carriage trundled out into the light, Roz went, ‘You know, I can’t imagine being a mother. Do you think I’ll be a good one?’
‘You’ll walk it,’ I said.
Just because a lie’s well-meaning doesn’t make it any less of a lie.
Afterwards I went and stood at the bottom of the garden for a while. I was safe here, I had nothing to worry about. No one was coming for me. And say she did turn up, I’d simply march her off the premises and then call the cops. I wasn’t frightened. Just bloody angry.
The sun was strong and I had to shade my eyes against the glare coming off the stone flags. I scanned the lawn, taking in the patches of browning moss and cat scrattings. Mum’s hydrangeas were in full flower now, and her Michaelmas daisies, and I thought how pleased she’d have been to see them. I remembered playing in front of these bushes as a child – Dad kept a pile of builder’s sand here for a while – and watching Mum as she bustled down the path that ran behind the rest of the houses in our row. Some errand she’d have been on, visiting an elderly neighbour, or trimming back the verges beyond our gate. Sometimes Chalkie would be following her. In this bed by the fence were her flowering currants, now coming into fruit. I stood and breathed in the scent of the leaves, not because it was especially nice but because it was one of those smells that took me back and calmed me, like privet and grass clippings. Lux soapflakes used to do the same.
Bloody hell, though, what was this? Broken stems and snapped-off daisy leaves, green leaves squashed into the dark soil. I bent to examine. The damage was slight, but annoying. Pringle, that would be, landing badly off a jump, or rolling about in the sun or pushing his way through on some catty mission. Little sod. Could he be any more of a nuisance? I’d have to stake some of these taller plants, see if that would protect them. Maybe I’d get some citronella sticks. Beat him about the head with one.
On the other side was the wilderness of Eric’s garden, gone to weed and featuring a pile of decorating debris on the grass, broken furniture and paint-splotched rags. Well, not everyone was a gardener, and when did he have time to bother about flowerbeds? He obviously had enough on, sorting out the interior. I wondered what had changed since I’d last been in the house, on the day of Mr Cottle’s death. I craned to see.
Downstairs, the blinds were drawn so I couldn’t look in. But across an upstairs window I thought I saw something move. I stared for half a minute: nothing. Only the sky reflected. It must have been the image of a bird flying past.
KAREN: What was it like when you were a girl? Did you have a happy childhood, would you say?
NAN: Aye.
KAREN: You don’t sound so sure. (Pause.) Are you tired? Shall we leave it till another day?
NAN: Aye. We used t’play piggy. I’ve shown you a piggy, hant I?
KAREN: There’s one in the box under the bed, it must be yours. Did your dad whittle it for you?
NAN: Aye.
KAREN: And a wooden top, you know, for a top and whip.
NAN: Oh, that were Jimmy’s. My dad made that. He said he’d mek me one an’ all and he did, but not for about a year after, and when it come I didn’t want it. I swapped it for some ribbons. (Laughs.)
KAREN: He carved you a boat, didn’t he?
NAN: He made Jimmy a boat. It had a mousetrap inside it and when you pressed t’side, th’ whole thing flew apart. I wonder what happened to that.
(Pause.)
KAREN: And you sang playground rhymes?
NAN: Oh aye.
KAREN: Can you sing some now?
NAN: No. I can’t remember.
KAREN: (chanting) ‘Karen Cooper is no good, chop her up for firewood. When she’s dead, jump on her head—’
NAN: ‘And then we’ll have some currant bread.’
KAREN: See? I knew they were still there. What was that one about toffee?
NAN: Oh. ‘You’re daft, you’re potty, you’re made of treacle toffee, I like treacle toffee but I don’t like you.’ (Laughs.)
KAREN: And you knew some about Charlie Chaplin?
NAN: Aye, a few. (Chanting.) ‘Charlie Chaplin, meek and mild, swiped a sausage from a child, when the child began to cry, Charlie socked him in the eye.’
(Both women laugh.)
NAN: Eeh, I dunno.
(Pause.)
KAREN: And what else do you remember?
NAN: Cards, we used to mess about with, sometimes. Jacky Ollerton, he had a pack and we’d go in t’Labour Club back porch and play there.
KAREN: Play what?
NAN: All sorts.
KAREN: For money?
NAN: No. For a flirt of your nose.
KAREN: What do you mean?
NAN: Like a flick. Come here, lean over. Like this.
KAREN: Ow!
NAN: So if you won, you flirted t’other person’s nose.
KAREN: Flipping heck, Mum. That’s brought tears to my eyes.
NAN: Aye, it did sting. And when your nose got too sore, you’d play for a flirt o’ th’ ear.
KAREN: (Blows nose.) I can’t see there’s much fun in that. Would it not have been easier to play for something else? Matchsticks or
stones?
NAN: I suppose. We didn’t, though. It was just, that was our game. That’s how we used to play.
KAREN: They must have built you tough. Crikey. (Blows nose again.)
NAN: Aye, I think they did. Hey, Karen, your eyes are really watering, did you know?
CHAPTER 7
On a day in July
Last day of Second Year and I was gathering up my stuff to go home. Ends of term always make me slightly sad, even though I’m on my way back to Will and ecstatic about that. I suppose there’s an element of nostalgia – we’ve had some laughs in this house, I’ve been as happy here as I could have been. But probably the root of it’s that I’m frightened. This time next year I’d be finished as a student, packing up for the last time. And then what? Panic, that’s what. Limbo, the hideous wideness of the world.
Mind you, however wobbly I was feeling about the future it was nothing compared with Roz’s state of dread. I’d sat up with her till the small hours talking through how her parents might react when she got home and told them she was pregnant. ‘Do I show?’ she’d asked, getting up and standing sideways on.
‘No,’ I said. ‘You wouldn’t guess, not yet.’
‘Thank God for smock tops.’ When she lifted her shirt, the top button of her jeans was undone.
‘If you buy some maternity trousers, they expand with you. They fit you when you’re slim and when you’re fat.’
She’d looked appalled at the suggestion. ‘Maybe next month, when I really start to change shape.’
She said she was going to confess to her mum first because she was the calmer of the two. ‘If I can get Mum on my side, Dad’ll come round. Then we can talk about how we’re going to manage things at home. And I’ll tell them about you, how well you’ve coped.’
‘Right,’ I said, embarrassed.
‘Then I’ll break it to Gareth.’
‘I bet he’ll be fine, once he gets over the shock. He loves you, Roz.’